Declawed
by crowlow
Summary: Did Kurotsuchi Mayuri really get all those scars from self-inflicted experiments, or were they given by a certain cheeky feline? Warning: Mayuri does the dirty. Originally posted May 19th, 2010 at my livejournal.


He wakes to a weight on top of him, and a pressure around his middle finger. Opening his eyes a mere crack, he peers at the disturbance with disdain, annoyed that whatever it is has disrupted his sleep. The figure he is met with is none other than Shinouin Yourichi, shamelessly naked as she straddles his waist, her long, heliotrope hair falling in loose waves about her shoulders. Her dark skin is aglow under the stream of moonlight through their open window, and it looks dewy with a lingering sheen of sweat from their earlier copulating.

For a moment, and only a _moment,_ he would have allowed himself to study her without saying a word. He would have been grudgingly pleased with the feel of her soft fingers against his palm, holding his hand in the space between them; if only he did not recall the strain on his finger that had roused his conscious state to begin with.

Amber eyes darting from her to his hand, he watches in horrified silence as she cuts the nail of his middle finger with a small scissor. One final snip at the edge and the long, painted appendage falls onto his scarred abdomen. He surges up immediately and grasps her wrist, hoping to break the bones with his grip as he glares into her mischievous, golden eyes.

"You insolent _sow! _Just what do you think you're doing?"

Shihouin simply stares at him with hooded eyes, a playful smirk curving her full, devious mouth. She leans forward and her lower half presses more firmly against him, while the silken skin of her inner thighs encases his hips temptingly. But he only continues to scowl at her, lips drawn in murderous sneer.

"Sow?" the woman purrs close to his face, placing her free hand against his chest and splaying her fingers. Golden eyes take on a lethal look of their own as she jerks her wrist free in one lightning fast motion before shoving him down, forcing his back flat against the futon. "What are you then, Kurotsuchi Mayuri, if you bed a sow?"

"A researcher studying its breeding _attempt,_" he supplies contemptuously. He begins to sit up again, having come to the concrete decision that he will take her back to his laboratory for the _final _time; that he will immerse her in one of his floor to ceiling vessels and watch her drown like she's deserved for the past century.

But before he can accomplish either of those things, she eases him back down and smooths her hands over his torso, her tawny skin just a shade darker than his own (and without the endless stitching). He decides to watch her blandly between stray strands of shaggy blue hair, mouth drawn at the corners in a dull grimace. And she stares back at him past her aubergine lashes, yellow eyes dark with languorous arousal, and smug enjoyment.

"You'll never change," she says smoothly, a trace of sardonic humor curling her feline tongue.

_Neither will you,_ he thinks vapidly, his interest in her quickly subsiding. Dragging moments such as this always make him wonder why he's put up with her for as long as he has. It really should have been far more stimulating to tie her down to a cold lab table and experiment on her: precise, deep incisions; malevolent electroshock, and whatever else he could think of. But then a far corner of his mind knows that this in itself is an experiment; that it always has been from the moment he'd met her.

The first time she'd spoken to him directly had been little more than a hundred years ago. He'd been newly released from the Maggot's Nest and spending his valuable time researching the development of gigais. It would have been the end to another long day for most, but Kurotsuchi Mayuri did not end his days. He only slowed them, just long enough to complete tasks that he would have preferred to do without all together, such as washing. How he would have gladly chosen to conduct every and all experiments without pause, but even he could not condone the gradual build-up of chemicals on his person, for the simple fact that they could alter the outcome of his studies.

Though, that too would have been interesting. . .

And it had been during one of those washings - beneath the pelt of cold water from a chrome showerhead above - that it happened. He'd felt a presence lingering behind him and had turned his head with a despondent scowl, having fully expected to find the insufferable Urahara Kisuke standing there. But instead it had been a woman: _the _woman - the prowling cat he'd had the displeasure of seeing around Urahara far too often.

She had feigned surprise over a cup of tea, with wide, golden eyes that burned in a deeply tanned face. He'd thought to himself that the color of her skin got to be that dark from the shine of her own gaze, sweltering like dual suns, and therefore roasting the flesh of her body. A body that had been covered in nothing but the white fabric of her captain's haori, held together by an arm lazily draped along her waist, revealing long, sculpted legs and the considerable swell of her breasts.

A moment of insincere shock, and then a candid grin that plucked annoyingly at his neural system, uprooting a frown of revulsion. He'd stood there motionless as her yellow eyes traveled the length of his naked form, the curve of her mouth exposing daring teeth that shone brightly in the dark.

"It looks like I bedded _you _and not Kisuke," she had commented, her husky voice lax but interlaced with an undeniable (and unrelenting) amusement. His brows had furrowed over hard eyes, and he turned the shower off with more force than necessary while grabbing a towel.

She had smiled more and pointed a slim finger in his direction.

"So, who's the lucky tabby that gets to use you as her personal scratching post?"

A choleric sneer burns his mouth at the memory, like the bubbling of bile lurking just behind his teeth. _Impertinent woman . . . _With the sound of her pleased chortle and the gleam of her scheming, brazen eyes, he'd been snared. Hooked on an invisible nail scratching underneath his chin, sick with an agitation in the pit of his stomach - like the froth that churned inside laboratory vials. He'd been overcome with a need to dissect the Shihouin princess, and he knew that he would not stop until he had her on metal gurney.

Had he been more specific as to the nature of that goal. . . Or had she not kissed him exactly three days later (_kissed _him, the depraved sow!), and had he not seen the look of her in the second that followed, with the white of his paint mirrored on her mouth. . .

_**Impertinent woman.**_

Practically growled, now, grating like the scrape of an animal's incensed claws against the inside of his skull. He knows why he has yet to catch her permanently and gore her open for good, as much as the answer frustrates him. His ongoing interest in her is kept alive because she goes against everything he has known, and everything he has stood for. He can not collect various variables and come to a definite conclusion, can not mix one chemical with another and know what the outcome will be. He can never pin her to his wall like the wings of a Hell Butterfly. With Shihouin Yoruichi his life can not be clean-cut science.

Instead it is spontaneous chaos, unpredictable and uncontrollable. It aggravates him to a point that he drives himself mad, and yet he can not refute it.

But if he puts his own infuriating reasons for delaying her dismemberment to the wayside, to examine _her _reasons for coming back to him. . . He is unable to build even a simple hypothesis, let alone determine an exact answer, and it only exasperates him even more than he already is.

He'd been rid of her for little more than a hundred years, had even managed to forget about his pining mania for her capture in the face of new test subjects. And then came the Winter War, and the moment that he had seen her again, standing amongst the rumble of a ruined town. Soul Society had been victorious, and he returned to Karakura to gather his spoils of war, only to find her instead (and that _unbearable _Urahara).

He had ignored her, instead turning to the heaps of dead Arrancar (and hopefully soon-to-_be_-dead Vizard and shinigami), directing Nemu with clipped, harsh words and an accusatory finger: _"Pick that one up, Nemu! The charred one there! Hurry up, you worthless girl!" _

And yet as hard as he had tried, he could not help the sluggish turn of his eyes. The repositioning of them at the corners of his lids, to examine the peripheral field of his vision. The exiled Shihouin princess, still standing by Urahara Kisuke but with her golden eyes taking stock of _him,_ her bronzed face stoical. Later they would find each other out of ear shot of the others, and the goddess of flash would smirk at him faintly and comment on his new appearance.

_"That look suits you, Kurotsuchi. Like the tyrannical Pharaoh that you've always wanted to be. Tell me, do the Egyptians still worship their Mau?"_

_Their __**Mau**_. No, he tells himself, they have never worshiped anything but the dank laboratories of his division, least of all the Shihouin noblewoman. Least of all the rolling arch of her hips as she sits astride his lap as she is doing now, seizing his wrist with her slim, womanly fingers and snaring his amber gaze with her own.

"Do you think that Kisuke would pleasure me with something like that?" she questions, clicking her tongue against her teeth and tapping the tip of his middle finger. Anger flares within him instantly, his teeth bared and brows furrowed. He jerks his arm back to break free of her grasp, but she holds tight to his wrist, smirking at him impishly as she leads his hand between her legs. He feels the fevered warmth of her soft folds first, and then a viscous wetness coating his fingers.

And despite her having mentioned the man he so deeply hates, he finds himself rubbing his fingers against her; roughly and without preamble before he forces two of them inside.

The woman moans, her hands finding purchase on his chest as she pushes herself into his hand. Sleekly muscled legs fan on either side of him, and in spite of himself he can not help his physical reaction to such a display. A shiver creeps its way over the knobs of his spine, and crawls along his umber flesh. But even in the face of a traitorous body he makes sure to refuse any mental response, and thus keeps his expression void save for a minute narrowing of his eyes.

Thin fingers that are slicked with Shihouin's arousal thrust spitefully, working their way in and out of her wet heat. He feels the sharp edges of her nails against his scarred chest, watches her hips undulate with his hand and listens to her throaty groan. And then in yet another attempt to exact revenge, he crooks his fingers in such a malicious way as to bring her pain.

But the felid only lets forth a pitched meow, her curved, powerful hips bucking against him. When she looks down at him past a heavy curtain of burnished violet, her smirk is as feral as the gilded irises that halo blown pupils. She laughs at him breathlessly and paws at his face, scratching his cheek four times over with a "playful" swipe of her hand. He sneers and nearly hisses, but instead settles for a livid snarl between gritted teeth.

That angry jeer morphs into a tight-lipped grunt when the woman pins both of his wrists above his head, and maneuvers her hips to brush his cock. Hard, he now realizes, with contempt. She continues to smirk at him mockingly as she transfers both of his wrists to one hand, then reaches back to hold him in place. He feels her against the head of his cock for a (_scorching_) heartbeat, before she takes him in one fast, yielding motion. . .

Her hold on his wrists goes uninterrupted as she moves, riding him with a graceful power that is equivalent - if not stronger - to the one he's seen her use in battle. Breathy moans and husky purrs fall in hot gusts against his face, but her teasing (and predacious) smile does not waver as she bites at his lips.

And through the reflexive jerking of his leg with every one of her thrusts - through the mounting intensity of his panting, and the rising heat in his gaze that films normally bright, alert eyes - he has one, resolute thought. . .

That Shihouin Yoruichi will be the one who is declawed next - and he will make sure that it is so excruciatingly painful as to strike terror into her for the rest of her days.


End file.
